


Bane's Nostalgia Inducing Bird

by Blakpaw



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Bane and Talia where father and daughter, Barsad was his brother basically., Brief suicidal thoughts, Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Feelings of uselessness, Hospital, I don't know a lot about mental illness so it's probably not that accurate, M/M, Mental Illness, Mentions of Suicide, Multi, Platonic Bane/Barsad, Platonic Bane/Talia, feelings of being disgracefull, feelings of worthlessness, loss of family, reference to corrupt mental asylum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-06 22:37:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14657661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blakpaw/pseuds/Blakpaw
Summary: If the league taught him anything it was that their is only disgrace in failing. He knows they failed. He had lay on the ground, bleeding, hand pressing to the bleeding wound that had become his torso, and counted. He counted, and counted, and bled, and bled, and the bomb’s blast did not shake the earth and steal his last breaths of agonized life. With this knowledge in his bones, his blood, his body, he drags himself to his feet, his boots feel like lead weights, waiting to sink him to the depths and beyond, never to return to the surface, to the air.





	1. Loses Cause Nostalgia

**Author's Note:**

> My first BaneBlake fic so it might be OOC.

If the league taught him anything it was that their is only disgrace in failing. He knows they failed. He had lay on the ground, bleeding, hand pressing to the bleeding wound that had become his torso, and counted. He counted, and counted, and bled, and bled, and the bomb’s blast did not shake the earth and steal his last breaths of agonized life. With this knowledge in his bones, his blood, his body, he drags himself to his feet, his boots feel like lead weights, waiting to sink him to the depths and beyond, never to return to the surface, to the air.

He was going to drown. He feels as if he could drown in his own blood, which gurgled to his lips as he forced himself to his feet, both his hands flying to his stomach to clutch the bleeding, grotesque gap in his body, pushing the shrapnel of his armor, as the large projectile’s shell casings, into his body and hands, chafing his burnt arms on the rough armor that had torn like paper under the missiles force. He begins to walk outside, and he knows, also, that he could drown in his grief, his guilt, of failing his mission, of failing his leader, his family.

Time blurs as he makes it to the door of the building, a building that stands at the center of a city that does not deserve to be spared, a city that does not deserve he who spared them. His eyes crawl over the ocean of bodies, he sees his brothers, his sisters, his friends, he sees people he knows, and people he never met, and he just sees people. He thumps down the steps, feeling dazed, and he knows he’s slipping, that he will not live much longer. As this thought occurs to him, his eyes trail to another body, and he sees something he had not, before, in the mass of bodies scattered in front of him.

He sees family. On autopilot, his body moves to the shaggy, straight nosed, thickly bearded, icy blue eyed Barsad, who eyes were still opened, yet still dropped, the way they always did, the way that made him look neutral and relaxed, and his mouth is open slightly, it portrays a brief moment of shock, as if unprepared for his death. His gaze travels to the steps of the town hall, were he and this hell bound city’s savoir had fought, and he knows Barsad did not die long after he had left to protect their sister. He looks back to his brother, at the scarlet on his body, and he drops to his knees.

He feels as if he is not in his body as he hears the broken sound from his own mouth, a sound that does not feel like it comes from him, a croaking, long sob, as his charred, burnt, bleeding arms curl under his dear Barsad’s back, and he holds him close. He sobs, he sobs as he mourns the small family he had never before known, he sobs for the man who had walked with him when no one else did dare too, when no one could, he sobbed for the man that had helped him bring their sister to health when she brought news of her father’s death. He did not care to listen to the footsteps that approached his dying frame, as he clung to his dead brother, he did not care to listen to what the voice said, or even remember who’s it was. His thoughts directed strictly to his brother, of his sister. He knew she did not survive, not if the plan failed.

He sobbed for the loss of everything he ever had, and the world went dark as his eyes finally drifted up, to see the fading form of Commissioner Gordon and the police force, and he dies knowing he will have nothing, and no one, and he will die with no dignity, he will die as a disgrace.

\--*--

Bane’s first though is that waking up is both a surprise and a disappointment. His head is fogged, pumped full of drugs that do little for the aches and pain his spine brings him, but still slow him, make his brain sluggish and useless. His second thought is how he is on display, more specifically his face, his mask was removed, replaced with the flimsy, see through plastic of the ventilator mask pressed to his face, revealing his concave nose, the ugly scars on the left side of his face, the ones that tear his upper lip apart to show his hideous, crooked teeth, the scar the runs across his face, the dents in his skull, and the mangled messes he calls ears.

Slowly, he looks down the length of his body, covered in a blanket, his hands chained the the bed, a shift of his legs says the same has been done for his ankles, and his brow twitches as he becomes aware of the uncomfortable presence of a catheter. There's so much discomfort, so much pain, in his body, that he can’t move, because it will only flair more aches in his body.

Most of all, he feels blatantly, absurdly, small, and terrifyingly alone. He has no one. He has no one to guide him, as Talia had, as Ra’s had, for a brief time, before her, how Talia’s pregnant, swollen mother had, before either of them. He misses the presence of his Wālid, the man who adopted him in the pit. Who may not of loved him, but took care of him, respected him, and taught him. He misses the ever present, ever watching body of his brother Barsad, how the man was the first to stand by him since Talia, the first to respect him, and the man who abandoned the league of shadows for him, not because they asked it of him, but because he thought it the right thing to do. Bane has no one, and he has nothing. He does not have his Osito, his only childhood friend in the pit, the plush teddy who protected him with the shiv in his back. He does not have the kind doctor, who had tried his best to heal him when he was dying.

Bane is purposeless, and therefore he is nothing.

He draws his gaze from were it had sat on his lap, to the clear window of his room, were any and all faces could stand and stare if they wish. No one looks at him, to distracted with their own families, with other patients, all but the police officers who stand around the outside room, in strategic points to apprehend him in case he attempts to break out, he’s sure. They all stare at him, their bodies tense as he shifts his head to look between them, to look them each in the eye, the confusion stuck to his face. He does not ask allowed, but he knows they can feel the question running through their heads. Why?

Why save him? Why save the man who doomed you and everything you knew and loved to hell?

It strikes Bane as he watches one guard sneer at him, as he looks him in the eyes. They do it to make him suffer, not knowing he already does, that his soul is in turmoil. They want him to pay for what he has done, to either to in a cell, to wait for his death by chair or injection, or to suffer in prison tell he dies by man or something devastatingly natural.

He puts his head back down on the pillow on the bed, and he thinks about how long he will have to live alone, he tells himself he will not take his own life, he will face his punishment to the end. He will suffer for failing.

\--*--

Bane is laying in the hospital bed still, staring at the meal the nurse had brought him, uncuffing one of his hands so he could eat. They have given him new braces to support his wrist and back, as his other two were completely ruined, and they had put him in surgery several more times, two of which were to remove more shrapnel from his body, and one of witch was to widen the slits of his crushed nostrils so he could instead wear a nasal cannula instead of a venturi mask, his chest still weak in his recovery.

As he softly gripped the tiny, tiny, plastic spork in his large hand and gently digs it into the jello, his door opened once again, and his tired eyes lifted the to presence of two men. One of which was easily recognized as James Gordon, the second was the man Bane knew to have been reported to have been seen visiting Bruce Wayne before the occupation, the one who had attempted to save the police from the sewers. Though he can understand why Gordon has come, he does not understand why the other has. He stares at them for a moment, before looking back down to his meal as he began to eat, the door clicking closed.

No sound permeates the room except for the ventilators hiss, the beeping of the monitors filling the room, the whir of the turning camera perched in the corner, and the wheeze of Bane’s haggard lungs. The silence is broken by Bane himself, when neither man seems intent on starting, his voice sounds foreign even to himself, the mask had so long changed his voice he can not remember what it was before the mask.

“If you have come to stare, the window is an option. But you have come to the room. You want to speak, then.” Bane mutters his observations, not yet looking back up at them, his bald head tilting, as if he was inspecting his lunch curiously “So what I wonder is why you wish to speak with me. I know I am going to prison. I am not going to hide from my crimes-”

“We came to interrogate you.” Gordon cuts him off, it does not surprise him that Gordon is the first to grow tired of his voice, as he had slandered his name the most. Bane looks up at him at that, his tired, droopy eyes slowly turning to John, most his movements are slow, like a sloths “The other is here for what reason, then?”

“I suppose it could be considered on field training, trying to get into the swing of things. Debating if I want the job.” The youngest man shoots back, Bane hums, interested in the response, both honest and yet still extremely unnecessary. Naive, like a child that still babbles, that does not know when to stop explaining himself, to give his peace and walk away.

Like Talia when she was a child.

Bane feels his heart ache at that, and his hand curls tighter around the spoon, before he puts it down altogether, nodding a bit, “Then ask what you want to know. I have no secrets anymore.” he spreads his hands softly, as if exposing himself to them, prompting them to see what he has left.

The younger hums, walking closer to Bane’s bed, his eyes are alight with a spark, a determination, and again Bane is reminded of his little Talia. He clears his throat, and pulls out a notebook “I’m Detective John Blake, running an investigation on locating the remaining members of the 'regime'-”

“They are dead.” Bane says simply. John gives him a funny look, frowning, Bane speaks again before he can “They have either died of their wounds, or killed themselves for disgracing the League’s name, for failing Talia. As for Dagget’s men and the prisoners I have no knowledge of their whereabouts. If that is all you came to ask I am sorry to disappoint-”

This time Bane finds himself interrupted by John, a quick snap of words that had seemed to be building since before he ever even walked into the building, “What the hell are you playing at!? Why haven’t you tried anything!? Good behavior won’t change your sentence! Being on your best behavior won’t change anything, so what the hell are you trying to do!?” Gordon steps a little closer, reached out to touch John’s shoulder.

Bane hums, once again reminded of a younger Talia's quick temper. He feels… he feels very nostalgic around John, and perhaps it is selfish, or perhaps it is desperation to cling on to any reasoning for life, but he finds himself wanting to force himself into John’s life, to be for him what he was for Talia. To be a protector, a loyal servant for John, a teacher,to ease his anger, his naivety, a friend, to support him when times are hard. He pushes down hard on the thought as it threatens to latch itself into an immediate obsession, instead of telling John all this, which would not be appropriate at all he just smiles sadly at John.

Instead he says “Nothing at all."


	2. Prisoners in Mind and Morality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They send a psychiatrist some few days after Commissioner Gordon and Officer Blake had come to interrogate him.

They send a psychiatrist some few days after Commissioner Gordon and Officer Blake had come to interrogate him. The psychiatrist is an older man, he’s balding a bit, scrawny and small in build, little to no muscle or fat to be found on his body. He has the broad nose the hooks down a bit, and spectacles he wears low ridden on said nose, his face is long and his chin very rounded. He has pale skin,and he trembles as he flips through a clipboard, checking he has all his needed papers. Once he confirms this he finally looks up to meet Bane and he smiles closed lipped, his voice shakes as much as his hands, and Bane can’t decipher if it’s his age or if he’s afraid.

He greeted Bane formally nonetheless “Good evening, I’m Dr. Grimorie! I have been asked to come and evaluate you, to see you fit for trial of course. Now if you don’t much mind, good sir I would like to ask you a series of questions.” Grimorie smiled as he pulled up a chair to sit close to Bane, posture open and calm, as an attentive listener does when locked in conversation. He crosses one leg atop the other at a comfortable angel that also allows him to rest his clipboard on his leg. Bane tilts his head back a bit, considering the older man before him silently before answering calmly, “You may ask me what you wish, I have nothing to hide.” bane sits up a bit more, shifting to look into the man’s shaky green eyes, “Though I think it fair that you must also answer questions for me in turn, an even trade, yes?”

Grimorie gives a pause before he nods a little bit “I think that’s fair enough. Why don’t I start us off?”

Bane simply nods, Grimorie smiles and looks down at his clipboard “I would like to ask you your name. If you could give me-”

“Bane.” said man grumbels as he continues to stare at the psychiatrist’s face, which tilts back up to to look at him, his brows furrowing, he goes to ask something else but Bane raises a hand “A question for a question, Mr. Grimorie.” he reminds him softly. Wearily the doctor nods his head, staring into Bane’s eyes. The larger man tilts his head and asks softly “Tell me, Mr. Grimorie, when was the first time you remember wishing death on a man?”

The old man gulps and his hands shake worse as he stares into the cold icy eyes of Gotham’s reckoning.

\--*--

They couldn’t be serious! They couldn’t be! It has to be some sort of sick twisted fucking joke!

Bane wasn't getting a trial! Bane wasn’t going to prison!

John can’t believe they deemed Bane unfit for trial, the bastard knew exactly what he was doing! John throws the paper across the counter angrily, huffing as he began to pace, his hands tangling in his hair. This just couldn’t be happening! After everything Bane did they were just going to put him in a loony bin and call it a day!?

John let out another loud and heavy huff of breath, flopping down onto his couch. He tapped his fingers angrily on the couch, looking over at the duffle bag that Bruce had left for him. To be fair, it was way more than just a duffle bag in its contents, it was an entire damn legacy. A legacy John wanted to continue but didn’t know if he could. He turned his head to look at the counter again, staring at where he’d left the paper.

Batman would probably agree with this. Bane was sick and needed help, and blah, blah, blah. John understood the appeal to never killing anyone, to fighting against someone’s death even if they’ve done terrible things, he understood morality and hope. What he didn’t understand was foolishness. These people think they can fix Bane. John gives a resigned sigh, the anger doesn’t quite leave but it dulls a bit.

It’s a publicity stunt, he decides. If you can cure the man who waged war on Gotham and reintegrate him into society as a normal man then, god damn, you must be a great institute with amazing doctors. John sneers a bit, it’s just like Arkham, too, pronounce all these terrible mass murdering people insane to try and prove how good an institute you are, only to have those same patients readmitted time and time again for relapses.

John turns his head instead to look out the cruddy, stained window of his apartment to the snowy grounds of Gotham, snow still drifted from the sky in soft bouts,covering up the stains of blood and damage on the city in pale white, as if the city was wrapped in gauze and casts. A broken body settling in for the long run of healing after months of abuse. He let out a weary sigh, people were still missing, and though the number had significantly dropped from the beginning, the dead were still being found. The city was over run with death and pain.

All because of Bane.

John remembered Gordon guiding him to city hall after Batman- after Bruce- had taken the bomb far enough away, he remembers how they heard the sound first, like a dying animal wailing in an endless metal cavern, how they found Bane dying and bleeding and holding the body of a man in his arms. John vaguely recognizes him, always standing mere feet from Bane in his destructive and terrifyingly true speeches.

It was the most human thing John had ever seen of Bane. Yes, in that fleeting, chilling moment Bane was utterly human. He thinks of Bane in the hospital bed, mask removed, and how such a simple thing made it blatantly obvious that, despite his stature, strength, and stubbornness, Bane was merely mortal. He remembers blue silver eyes, still full of terrifying intelligence, looking into his, staring endlessly as if trying to pry inside of John’s soul. He remembers how lost and empty those eyes looked, no anger, no spite, simply just lonely, empty, intelligence. He remembers how weak it made Bane look.

John sighed, his anger suddenly drained. Yes, he was unhappy with the announcement deeming Bane unfit for trial, but a part of him thinks maybe it’s a good opportunity for Bane. Yes, Bane is a monster for what he did, yes, Bane is a terrible person, but, it’s also a good opportunity for bane to potentially, maybe, get better. That pessimistic part of John brain, though, supplies John with a list of past sight calls and violations Arkham is known for. It makes John sick, a twisted fucked up place like Arkham being allowed to continue to thrive, to claim to be a safe haven for the sick when it’s the heart of so many of Gotham's problems.

Blake gave another long sigh, standing back up and sliding his jacket on, getting ready to head out into the cold expanse of Gotham in the winter.

\--*--

Bane is a little surprised and extremely taken aback by the announcement that he unfit for trial. He’s not sure how what he has told the psychiatrist had deemed him unfit to see forth his trial and sentence, but now it seems he's being transferred to another hospital, one of different roots, yes, but a hospital nonetheless.

He is provided with clothes as they discharge him, his back bracer is fastened beneath the shirt securely, and he tightens his wrist bracer as he steadies himself. He feels a tight tension coiling in his belly, the kind that he grew to trust and rely on in the pit. Danger is building, something is going to happen. One may call it nervousness, but Bane prefers to refer to it as awareness. Perhaps it is because he has never been inside of an asylum personally, perhaps it is because he will be alone during his stay.

Whatever the reason may be, Bane decides he will remain on edge, aware and vigilant as ever. He steps back into the presence of the authorities as they give him another quick pat down, Bane finds it amusing they think they need to do as such, seeing as the room he’d changed in had been empty of all things when he entered, and they had given him a similar treatment before he even entered said room.

Once satisfied Bane did not have any prohibited contraband, he was cuffed and lead to a transport vehicle, bane did not put up any sort of struggle as he was placed in the small, rectangular box shaped back of the vehicle, the door was closed, leaving him in a relative darkness, save for the rectangular holes in the upper back corners of the containment area. Bane knelt in the dark, his spine protesting a bit, body swaying a bit as the truck lurched into movement.

It reminded Bane of the pit, darkness with only a bare minimum amount of light. Perhaps he should find it claustrophobic, panicked and blocked in, but he rather finds comfort in the confined walls, in the dark light with dim sunlight lighting the small space. It’s a little too bright, and a little too cozy, to really be anything from the pit, but it’s close enough to be comforting.

Bane judges the turns and corners they take by the way his body sways in it’s crouched position, arms resting on his arms, enough to be comfortable but not tangled, allowing him full movement the cuffs would allow, just in case he needs to jump into quick reaction for any reason.

All together, Bane confidently estimates the trip to Arkham took a little under thirty minutes. He is...displeased with this, as he had been left to reminisce on the reports his dear brother and sister had supplied him with on this hospital. Perhaps he will spend his time here trying to liberate the sick, whom are being used by the demented employees of this dreaded asylum.

Perhaps not a goal that will last him for a long time, but one that will give him something to fight for long enough to find a true purpose again. He turns his head towards the doors and stand was they creak open, the old hinges on the door protesting with soft whines of metal, before bane steps out. He is lead inside by a small sqaud of men, he waits patiently as he is processed into the system via papers, he notes that Grimorie’s name is already signed on the paper.

After the head officer of his small squadron finishes with the paper, Bane is lead deeper into the compound, hi eyes scanning the once white walls, stained with splashes of yellow, and other signs of rot and staining caused by various bodily fluids. He can hear the echoing screams of tortured minds echoing down the twisting halls, the frantic murmurs twisting from doorways and into his ears.

By the time they make it to Bane’s new cell, his spine is protesting greatly, the drugs they had given him to dull the pain had finally faded from his system. Gently, Bane sat himself on his bed, a guard removing his cuffs before making a hasty exit. As the sound of footsteps fade Bane gently rolls himself to lay with his back flat to the mattress, taking slow gentle breath and letting himself slip into meditation, so he could at least manage the pain he knew was coming before it reached its peak.

Bane closed his eyes, keeping his hands by his sides, and he focused and staying relaxed, he focused on thoughts that kept him both grounded to the present, to the place he now resided, and yet to a place very far away.

Bane thinks of Talia, when she was young and small, her tiny hand wrapped around his fingers as she toddled him around the dusty, dank, depressing sandy confines of his cell, he thinks of the desserts he crossed with the league of shadows, he thinks of the long climbing trek up the mountain to his first true home. He thinks of the expanse of the ocean as he travels under deck of a cargo ship to America, he thinks of the Savanna in Africa. He thinks of everything and nothing all at once.

In the end it is not enough, the pain rises and builds, rises like Talia had,in jumping and quick motions,urged on by old wounds refreshed by the force of a small missile impacting with his body. The pain becomes so great he can't even scream.

He is a prisoner of his own agony once again.


End file.
